Aarifa sat before the dying embers, the jade falcon resting in her palm like a secret too sacred to speak aloud. Its weight was strange, not heavy but charged, as if it remembered all the hands it had passed through. The shape of it still pulsed against her skin even when she set it down, hidden beneath the folds of her shawl chest.
She hadn't seen Khurram since the night he left that gift behind, vanishing like smoke into the shadows of her room. She hadn't dared to ask for him either.
Three days had passed.
Three days of silence from the zenana, from Mumtaz, from the Emperor's court.
Three days where no new summons came.
Only whispers.
Whispers curling through the halls like incense... foreign spies... poisoned cups... a general gone missing... and worst of all, murmurs of a prophecy stitched in silk and gold.
Her shawl.
The dagger.
The cracked crown.
She hadn't stepped into her weaving chamber since. The loom stood cold, the threads untouched. Every time she approached, her hands would tremble and memory would rush in like floodwater—the moment the dagger appeared on her cloth without her will, the way the Emperor had looked at it, not with fear, but with recognition.
As if he had seen that blade before.
As if it had already pierced him once.
Then came the knock.
Not Zahra's soft rhythm. Not the delicate rap of an attendant. This was swift. Measured.
A soldier.
Zahra met her in the hallway, breathless. "They've come for you."
Aarifa froze. "Who?"
But Zahra only shook her head.
Minutes later, she was led through corridors she had never seen before. Beneath arches carved with roses, through doors guarded by men with silent eyes. Not the route to the Diwan-e-Khas. This was deeper. Older.
They brought her to a room she did not know existed, behind the royal archives. Dust hung in the air like memory. Scrolls lined the walls, untouched. At the center stood a figure in deep maroon robes.
Not Khurram.
Emperor Jahangir.
The man who ruled all of Hindustan.
She bowed low, heart pounding. "Jahanpanah."
"Rise," he said, voice smooth but tired. "You are the weaver."
"I am."
He studied her in silence. Not unkindly. But not warmly either. He looked at her as if trying to recall a name long forgotten.
"Tell me," he said at last, "what do you see when you sit at your loom?"
Aarifa swallowed. "Not what I choose. What chooses me."
He tilted his head. "So you do not design the patterns?"
"I begin them," she admitted. "But they change... as if someone else takes over."
Jahangir took a slow step forward. "There was once a woman... long ago. Before my father's reign. They say she wove the fall of a city into her cloth. Her work was banned. Her loom destroyed."
He stopped in front of her, gaze sharp.
"Are you her?"
Aarifa blinked. "No... but perhaps I am like her."
He nodded once, slowly. "So it continues."
She dared to look up. "Then you believe what I wove was real?"
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I have no need to believe, child. I have lived long enough to know that what is woven often comes to pass... whether we wish it or not."
He turned, hands clasped behind his back. "You showed me a broken crown. And a dagger beneath it. What you may not understand is this... my crown is already cracked. My court divided. My health failing."
He paused.
"And there are those who would hasten my fall. Even... those within my own blood."
Aarifa's throat tightened. "Khurram."
Jahangir's eyes flicked toward her. "So. You do speak his name."
A trap. Or a test.
She said nothing.
He stepped closer once more, his voice quieter now. "He is ambitious. Brilliant. He hides it well, but he burns for the throne. He always has."
Aarifa's voice was almost a whisper. "Then you fear him."
"I fear no son of mine," Jahangir said. "But I watch them all."
He moved to a carved chest near the scrolls and opened it, revealing an object wrapped in faded silk.
When he unwrapped it, Aarifa's breath caught.
Another shawl.
Older. Finer. But unmistakable in style. The thread work was near identical to hers.
And there it was... the same dagger. The same cracked crown.
"I received this thirty years ago," Jahangir said. "It was left outside a Sufi dargah in Lahore. No one claimed it. I kept it."
Aarifa stared. "The same motif..."
"But not the same hand," he said. "Whoever wove this... they warned me of betrayal. And it came. My brother rose against me months later."
He looked at her now, eyes sharp. "Tell me, girl... are you the same blood as that weaver?"
"I don't know."
"Then find out. Or others will."
He rewrapped the shawl, and handed it to her. "Take this. Let your hands speak to it. Tell me what they find."
Aarifa left the chamber shaken, the weight of the ancient shawl pressed to her chest. Zahra was waiting.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"I think," Aarifa said, "I am not the first."
That night, she returned to the loom.
And as soon as her fingers touched the old thread, something stirred in her veins. Not memory... something older than memory. Like blood recognizing its own.
Her hands moved without will.
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
And when it was done, she stepped back, trembling.
A new pattern had emerged.
Not just a dagger.
This time... a falcon. Broken in flight.
The jade falcon.
Khurram.
The thread had spoken again.
But before she could call Zahra, a scream echoed from the courtyard.
She ran to the jharokha, heart hammering.
Flames.
One of the outer kitchens was burning. Servants scattered. Guards shouted.
But her eyes were drawn to something else. A figure, cloaked in white, slipping through the smoke. Head covered. Moving with intent.
Toward the zenana.
Moments later, a hand clamped over her mouth.
She struggled, kicked—but the grip was firm. The voice was low.
"Quiet. It's me."
Khurram.
She turned, furious. "What are you doing here?"
"There's no time. I needed to warn you."
"About what?"
"The dagger wasn't prophecy. It was a threat."
Her blood ran cold. "What?"
"The design," he said. "You think you wove it from some unseen power. But someone else saw it before it was done. The pattern was planted."
Aarifa stepped back. "That's not possible... I never showed it to anyone."
"Someone knew. Someone has been watching you... us. They are using your gift to spark a war."
She stared at him. "Who?"
He hesitated.
"Your brother?"
Khurram's silence was answer enough.
"There are things you don't know," he said. "My brothers are not just rivals. They are enemies. And one of them wants our father dead."
Aarifa's chest tightened. "And you think... they used me?"
"You were the perfect vessel. Talented. Unaware. Trusted by the Emperor. But it's not just the shawl anymore."
He reached into his robe and pulled out something wrapped in linen.
When he unfolded it, Aarifa gasped.
Another dagger.
Real.
Its hilt carved with the imperial crest.
Found, he said, hidden beneath her weaving table.
Meant to frame her.
Or worse... to use her hand.
She stepped back, horror dawning. "They want to blame me."
Khurram's jaw tightened. "Or kill you."
He looked at her then, truly looked at her.
"You have to leave. Tonight."
Aarifa stared at the dagger in his hand, then at the jade falcon still resting on her table.
"I can't leave," she whispered.
"You must. There's a caravan leaving for the hills before dawn. Go with them. Disappear."
"And you?"
"I'll handle what comes."
His voice cracked on the last word.
She wanted to believe him.
But just before he left, just as he reached for the door, she asked, "Khurram... did you know they were using me?"
He paused.
And then, too slowly, too carefully... he said, "No."
But the pause had already told her everything.
He had known.
She was sure of it.
He slipped into the dark, leaving her with the old shawl, the jade falcon, and a dagger that did not belong to her.
And somewhere in the palace... someone had begun to move the next piece.